


Vaccancy

by miss_nettles_wife



Category: The Doctor Blake Mysteries
Genre: Gen, Kidnapping, M/M, Mental Torture, Mind Break, Self Harm, Self Loathing, Torture, Vomit, confinment, its all bad in this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 11:53:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5665165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_nettles_wife/pseuds/miss_nettles_wife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hobart was not someone Charlie expected to pull off a successful kidnapping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vaccancy

**Author's Note:**

> Its that time of year when I go though my wip folder an find out whats worth keeping. This one made the cut. Heed the tags plz, theres nothing happy about this one.

Hobart was not the person that Charlie thought was going to be pulling off a successful kidnapping. Okay that may be an understatement, but the sentiment remains. Hobart, as A) A policeman, and B) not even a particularly good one. He'd always thought he could beat the man in a fight, but now he didn't know. It occurs to him that he may never know again. 

Hobart, from what he can understand, has been keeping him in some kind of cupboard. There's clothes above his head, which brush frustratingly on his hair, and shoes on a rack to his left. He's counted the shoes a dozen times over trying to provide some kind of stimulation to himself. There's five pairs of shoes, and one pair of boots. 

The closest is about two and a bit Charlie's (For want of a better metric, naturally) wide, with no space for him to really move. The only even vaguely comfortable way for him to sit was too pull his knees up to his chin and rest his head on them. Every muscle just felt permanently taught and coiled. Much to his horror, he realized he was looking forward to when Hobart decided to show up because it meant stretching and moving. 

And it meant a chance to escape. 

Which hadn't happened yet, but he was sure that it would. He knew Hobart. Knew that he made mistakes, knew he was sloppy. He might be bored but he wasn't an idiot. He tilted his head back as far as he could, and then stops himself from rocking backwards and forwards. He knows that it's just a self comfort mechanism, that his body is struggling to adjust. That is fine. He just finds concerning that he does it without even realizing it. He stills his body, and tightens his grip around his knees. The downstairs door just opened. 

He's back.   
…

“You need to eat, Charlie.” Hobart said, gently prodding the spoon at his lips. His lips remained tightly closed as Hobart sighed. “Do you think that I enjoy hurting you?” He asked, trying to peel Charlie's lips back from his teeth with rough fingers. He sighed, and sat back on his feet for a moment, before pinching his nose. He expected Charlie to open his mouth but he retorted by breathing between his teeth. Hobart sighed again, and stood. “Alright.” He murmured, and got to his feet. He returns with a hammer looking device, and proceeded to break Charlie's foot. 

He screams as loudly as he can. Hobart leaves him alone after that. 

…

He has to be hallucinating, that's the only explanation that he has for the noises that he can hear. He's not sure exactly what he's hearing but he knows that it's not real. It can't be. He hears Blake's footsteps outside his little prison. He's lived with Blake for months, he knew the sound of his footsteps. He knew where he walked and he can hear it. He has to be coming, he has to be here to save him. 

He hears Blake talking to Hobart and he throws his whole weight against the door, once. Twice. Nothing. It's locked. He's now lying against the wall, unable to bother to pull himself up. Blake talks to Hobart, and he hears Hobart tell Blake that a hat box must have fallen down. He tries to yell, tries to scream. The door opens, he falls into Blake's suited arms, and takes deep breaths of his slightly clinical smell, hands clutching spastically at him. Blake carries him to the bed and holds him until he falls asleep, knowing that he's safe. 

…

He wakes up and he realizes that he's still in the cupboard. Blake's feet are gone and so are his warm arms. He tightens his arms tightly around his legs and gazes down at his broken foot. Hobart had done himself a disservice by breaking it because it gave Charlie a way to measure the passing time. It's been over a week or so because the bones have knitted together. Poorly, of course. He'd had no way to splint it or fix it up, and it had been too painful for him to touch. He stared at his now ruined foot with a soft sigh. Maybe Hobart was right. Maybe Blake really wasn't looking for him. He slowly uncurled his arms from his cramping legs and gently ran his fingers over the tube that was still in his nose. Despite his pleadinging to Hoabrt that he would eat, the man just said that he need to be taught a lesson. 

His throat hurts fairly constantly now, and he assumes that's from him never having the water for him to wash down the back of his throat. He also notes, rather sadly, that he's slowly losing weight. It's not enough to be bad for his health quite yet, but if he doesn't stop losing weight soon then it might be. He sighs again, and wraps his arms back around his knees and then tilts his chin onto his knees and lets out a long sigh. 

…

Hobart drags him out again that night, and tosses him onto the bed. He tries to sit up, but struggles to move. Hobart just sighs again and pushes him back down. “Blake's rented out your room.” Hobart informs him, “Your replacement moved in. I'm fairly sure Blake likes him more then you.” He smiles, “But it's fine, I suppose. Lawson gave him your desk, I asked if we were waiting on you, but he said that it doesn't matter.” He shrugged. His eyes water. “I mean imagine that. I've got you right here, and no one's even looking for you. I'm the only one questioning your leaving.” He scoffed. “Funny.” He sighed. “Anyway.” He said, leaving the room, and returning with a glass of water. “Are you going to behave enough to use your mouth?” 

He nods frantically. Hobart sighs grimly. “I don't think you are. I heard you throwing yourself against the cupboard last night.” he said. “So I think that for the time being, you'll have to keep the nose tube in.” He murmured, before pressing the cup of water against his lips. “Drink.” Hobart said, softly, and allowed him to take a sip of water. Charlie does, but it does little to help his throat. Hobart leaves him there on the bed for a while, and goes to do something else. Charlie relishes in the feeling of being able to stretch. He debates, for a little while, getting up and running, but Hobart closed the door and Charlie would put money on it being locked. 

He lay still and quiet on the bed, watching out the window at the sun as it came down. Hobart came in, collected him, and put him back in the cupboard. He tilted his head back, and looked up at the police shirts hanging above his head. He stares at them until his eyes close and his head hangs back uselessly. 

…

It's been a long time since Hobart was last here. His legs hurt worse then they ever had before, the muscles tightened and released at indeterminable intervals, which makes it all but impossible for him to get any sleep. His arms hurt as well, his fingers have gone white from his tight grip around his knees. He pressed his forehead against his legs, unsure of really what to do. Up until now he'd been so sure that Blake was coming for him, so sure that this was only temporary. But his foot was from what he could tell, fully healed and Hobart has told him time and time again not to worry because Blake was happier without him. 

And for a second, just one single moment, he believes it. He's never been so disgusted with the fact that he's not even disgusted by himself, for thinking like that.

…

He's not sure how long it is before Hobart pulls him out of the cupboard again. He deposits Charlie on the bed, and unhooks the tube from behind the back of his ear. Charlie does not put up a fight because he wants the tube out of his nose quite badly. 

Hobart sits him up against the bed end, and puts a warm, damp wash cloth on one of his aching legs. Charlie continues to be largely unresponsive, unable to come up with anything very useful to say. Hobart doesn't much like it when he talks anyway, he thought, as he turned his eyes to gaze out the window at the world he had no way to see. 

“You know, if you were better behaved, I could take you out there.” Hobart informed him quietly, and gently stroked Charlie's hair away from his face, the gel long since having been sweated out. Hobart stares at him thoughtfully, before saying “I think you need a bath.” Charlie's eyes widen fearfully, and he pulls his legs away from Hobart towards his body.   
“No.” He whispered, voice gritty and harsh from disuse. Hobart stands back, and gives him a look of surprise.   
“ Fine. No bath.” he said, with a shrug, before unhooking Charlie, and throwing the man over his shoulder.   
Charlie tried to fight back, for the first time in weeks, kicking his aching muscles and yelling at the top of his lungs. Hobart threw him roughly into the bathtub, and turned on the shower head, dousing him in icy cold water. He coughed furiously, trying to sit up, to no avail. Hobart just kept one hand on his chest, holding him under the freezing spray. He yelled until he stared to choke on the water and hack furiously. 

Hobart holds him in the freezing spray until he stops fighting back. He then pulled him from the bathub and dragged him into the cupboard dumped him there, before taking out a shirt for the next day, and leaving him there shivering in his wet police shirt and pants. He leans into the cupboard, and then proceeded to remove his shirt, yelling at him and pulling his arms from his shirt and then his legs from his pants. He left Charlie alone, sitting in the wardrobe in his singlet and underwear.   
…  
Hobart does not let him out of the cupboard for a long time after that. It must be days and days. He gets fed enough, but his clothes aren't returned and he's not allowed out other then the alloted times where Hobart carried him to the bathroom, gave him maybe five minutes, and then returned him to the cupboard. Hobart's visits are few and far between and he gets the feeling that he won't be let out any time soon. He cries fitfully, swapping between sobbing in agony as his muscles contracted and released, and sobbing in sadness at the fact that no one had come to rescue him yet. 

He never thought he'd be desperate to see Hobart again. But he could swear that he's feeling relief at the sight of seeing the man when the cupboard opened again that night. He pulls Charlie out and dropped him onto the floor. His legs ache. He aches. Hobart sighed softly, and put him up on the bed. “I have to punish you now.” Hobart sighed quietly. “You know I don't like that, but you can't just act like that.” He commented, and left Charlie there, unable to move for several minutes before returning with the hammer and examining his healed foot for several moments, and then breaking three of his toes. “And I can't take the tube out either.” He sighs, “But I will swap nostril I think.” He commented, taking Charlie and putting him up on the bed, and then proceeding to remove the tube from his nose slowly. 

Charlie looked almost sick as it emerged from his nose, and then as Hobart put it in the bin. The horror continues as Hobart inserts a new tube into his other nostril. He had known that feeding tubes were only temporary but he hadn't expected it to continue for over a month at least by now. His throat hurts. He wants to go home. 

Hobart leaves him on the bed, and leaves him there until he comes back in, changed into his pajamas, and tucked Charlie under the covers. Charlie watches him for the longest time as Hobart proceeded to go to sleep. He lies there all night, watching him sleep, trying to figure out what he should do. He could get up and leave, but then Hobart might know and he seriously has no desire to invoke the man's ire. What if he just got up, and had a look around? What if he got to a phone? He could call Blake to come and get him. But he can't force his body to do as it's asked, too afraid of Hobart to even really try. 

He's disgusted with himself, honestly. He tells himself that there is no way that Blake would have given in this easily.   
…

He keeps Charlie out for the whole day, and he's grateful. He gives him a warm bath that releases his muscles and washes his hair kindly. They shave, he even does Charlie's hair neatly. Charlie cries that night when he goes back into the closet. 

But this jag is much shorter, the next morning, Hobart removes him and helps him to stand on his limping feet, and takes him back out into the kitchen. Charlie stares at the kitchen with confused eyes. Hobart leads him to the stove. “I assume you can cook?” Charlie nods slowly. Hobart makes a hand gesture that seems to say that he should go bout cooking. So he does. 

He makes an omelet with ham and cheese in it, and presents it to Hobart, who hasn't moved in a great while as Charlie struggled his way around the kitchen. He seems to consider what ever he was trying to achieve done because he invites Charlie to sit, and unhooks the tube from behind his ear. He doesn't have much occasion to move, and allows Hobart to does as he pleases. 

He figures out that something must have changed however when he begins to feel sleepy, and assumes that it was something in the food. A little part of him hopes that it's going to kill him.   
…

A part of him is worried, but not as much as it used to be. He's realized that Hobart must be right, Blake isn't coming for him, because he's been watching the days since Hobart started to give him a few more freedoms, and he works out that he's been here for almost eight months and there's been no sign of anyone coming to save him. 

So he does what he'd been too scared of before, he gives in. Not gives up, persay, because he will still find his freedom some day, but for now, he just decides maybe its best to do as Hobart says, he thinks, as if he has a choice. 

His time spent in the cupboard is becoming shorter as Hobart realized that Charlie's hope was slowly eroding. He spends more time performing whatever tasks Hobart asked of him. Cook this. Clean that. Whatever it was, Charlie did it. Hobart seems more bearable every evening when he decides it's time to take Charlie out from his hiding place, where he is currently. He absently wonders if it's at all possible for a person to have Stockholm Syndrome, but for a place. Not that he knows an awful lot about Stockholm Syndrome, but he supposes that he is attached to the cupboard. Logically, he knows that it's just because he knows being in the cupboard gives him a reprieve from Hobart, but he still wonders. 

Briefly, of course. He's so bored and uncomfortable in the wardrobe that he finds his mind cant stay on one subject for very long, but he tells himself that it's fine, it's all fine, that Hobart will let him out when he returns from work, he'll stretch his legs and back and everything was going to fine once Hobart was back.   
…  
There is not much occasion for thinking anymore. When he'd first been brought to Hobart's place, all he'd had had been been his thoughts, but now, there is no real reason for him to bother thinking. Hobart has made it very clear that he's not going to be leaving this house alive. He doesn't act out much any more either. There's no point to it, why would there be? From what he understands, there is no one looking for him, not one single person. 

After all, it's been over a year (He's stopped counting, there's no point) And if someone was going to save him, it would have happened by now he is sure of it. But he doesn't think about it now. He doesn't think about anything if he can help it. Hobart wanted him to be a mindless drone then fine. He'll be a mindless drone. He'd do whatever it took to avoid invoking Hobart's ire. 

He moves his face to his chin, and closes his eyes, he thinks of nothing but his aching muscles, he stars to rock back and forwards, the movement is familiar and comforting. Even If he'd initially been disturbed by his bodies attempt at stimulation, now, it hardly even registers as unusual.  
…

He is in the cupboard when it happens. He is being punished for an incomplete task that he really didn't have enough time to finish anyway. But he is fine being punished because he will do better next time. Hobart often simply puts him in the cupboard for nothing. It's not unusual for him.

Hobart is speaking to someone outside, but that is not anything new. It barely registers with him. His legs ache so he thinks about that instead. He rubs the tight muscle with the palm of his hand. It does little to help, but it's all he has. When the pain is too much, he starts to rock back and forwards. It offers him a little comfort and a gives his muscles a chance to work. Even if he very badly wants to move around he knows better then to try and risk it. There is no where for him to go, anyway. 

Then, while he rocks, he hears feet outside his little prision, and he perks up suddenly, because it must be Hobart, and if it's Hobart then it means he's being let out. But it's not Hobart at all. He's too short to be Hobart, too warm, to conerned. Charlie's tries to make his way back into the cupboard away from him because if he leaves then Hobart is going to hurt him. Hobart is going to break his fingers or his foot or lock him in here for days. 

But the man does not seem to care, he leans in and wraps Charlie up tight in his arms saying words that he can't compute into his shoulder as he is lifted. He glances around for Hobart only to be unable to see him. His legs hurt.   
…  
Sitting with Charlie in the hospital is a truly painful experience. It's been three years since he saw Charlie last, when he went to work and then didn't come home, and he'd been looking ever since. He'd followed so many dead ends he thought that Charlie could have been dead, until Hobart made the mistake of letting himself get sloppy. 

When he mentioned that Charlie's allergy to honey, something no one except himself, Lawson and Jean were aware of. That was his first hint. He spent the rest of the week watching Hobart carefully, because after all, innocent until proven guilty and Charlie could well have told other people. But he was right. He and Lawson arrived at Hobart's place, and demanded answers from him, receiving none at first. It took over an hour of questions before Hobart slipped again, and not only that, but the idiot had left Charlie's wallet on the bench. It was full of Hobart's things but it had been a birthday gift from Mattie, so he knew it right away, the tiny pin pricks from the embroided C D in the bottom corner confirming it. 

Of course, Hobart the deciding to tell them about all the things he'd done to Charlie over the last three years did that one better. Knowing the game was up Hobart went on a rant about the things he had done, and although none were sexual, they still left a sinking feeling in Blake's stomach. He opens the door to the upstairs cupboard, and he's never been more shocked in his life then to see Charlie sitting there quietly, giving him a brief look and then looking back to the floor

Almost, almost as if he hadn't seen Blake at all. Physically, he looked okay. He had a slightly wonky finger and one of his feet seemed mishapen, but physically, he looks okay. Perhaps slightly under weight, and he'd lost some muscle mass. But Blake doesn't stare any longer, he gathers Charlie into his arms to lead him to the Hospital. 

He spent a week there, or at least, his body did. His eyes were always fogged over and distant, never spending too long looking at actual people or objects, just looking out into space. When Blake returns to see him after spending the night home, the nurse tells him what has happened. When left to his own devices, Charlie had gotten out of bed, and found comfort in the space between the wall and the bedside table, sitting perfectly still with his kneed tight up against his chest, rubbing at his cramping muscles. No one had known what to do, so they'd just left him there. 

It's not to say that Blake had any more or less idea what to do then they did, but at least he was willing to try. He knelt down in front of Charlie, and carefully wormed his fingers between his, breaking his cement hold on his knees. His legs strain for a moment, before Blake reaches out a hand of his own to massage the tight muscle, and ease Charlie's legs down in front of him again, while Charlie's hands rested uselessly in his lap. Charlie doesn't spend much time in the hospital after that. After a brief debate with his mother Blake decides to take him back to his place and see what could be done for him there when it came out that Charlie's mother probably wasn't the best candidate to be caring for him with her three other children and work. 

Lucien feels sick. Really and truly sick. Charlie has been out of hospital for three weeks now and there has been no change. Not even a slight one. 

Every day is the same. He finds where Charlie has hidden (He locked the door to the wardrobe in Charlie's room, but the man always seemed to be able to find some tiny corner to sleep in somewhere) himself during the night, wakes him up, deals with the initial confusion, then takes him to the kitchen, tries to convince him to eat (Mostly successful). While he worked, Charlie would usually sit in the living room on the couch, starring into space. On occasion he would pull his legs up to his chin and rock backwards and forwards. 

It was...unsettling to say the least. It made him sick. 

Hobart was still awaiting trial, but there was no doubt in Blake's mind that the punishment should be severe. With another day over, he makes his way to the living room, where Charlie was seated on the floor by the couch, arms pulled tightly around his legs. Blake sat on the couch, and then looked down to see Charlie's fingertips tightening and releasing at seemingly random intervals. After a moment, he lowered himself to the floor next to him, and carefully released Charlie's legs from his arms, which went slack. He carefully moved his hands around Charlie's lower legs and found the muscle pulled tight. After a slight moment, he massaged the taut muscle until it stopped its spasmodic tightening and losening. Charlie says nothing, but allows him to hold onto his leg for another few moments. 

Blake is unsure what to make of it. 

…

Everything is so confusing. After so long of simply obeying whatever Hobart asked of him, suddenly not having Hobart to tell him what to do was a nerve racking experience. While he tried his best not to think too much, there was just so much happening. The man who had been there first, who he has come to understand is 'Lucien' seems to take joy in hovering around him. He finds the man tolerable, but if he was sent by Hobart then clearly Charlie had to do everything he says or risk punishment. It's always punishment with Hobart. No second chances. He knows this now. 

He removes himself slowly from the bed and wanders around the house the way he often does at night, when there is no one to see, and finds himself a small corner to sit in, uable to really specify why he likes to sit in corners like this, but he finds comfort in the tight space. He pulls his knees up against his chest and takes a moment to enjoy it, before closing his eyes and allowing sleep to come gradually to him.   
…  
It does not help that Hobart is about as sorry as a brick is when a wall collapses. Talking to him is like talking to a brick. He wants to tell them constantly about the things he did to Charlie, but never tells anyone why he did what he did, and what Charlie could possibly have done to deserve it. 

“Hobart.”   
“Lawson.” He replied, moving his handcuffed hands to sit in front of him on the table. “Are you here for another story?” He asks, softly. Lawson shakes his head no but it does not discourage Hobart.  
“I used to put him in dresses.” He said, softly, “And ask him to dance for me. He didn't, at first, but he didn't take much convincing either.” He chuckled. “He is a good dancer. One step, two step.” he smirked. Lawson hardens his face.   
“I'm here to charge you with kidnapping.” He declared and set the necessary papers down in front of him. Hobart smiles grimly.   
“Once, sat him outside for six hours, he was so broken by then he didn't even notice I don't think. He sat out there in the rain until I brought him in. He almost caught pneumonia.” He scoffed, “But he didn't. He was pretty funny while he was sick, he was so feverish that he cried when I put him away. He begged me to hold him. He hadn't talked for a long time at that point, so I indulged him.” Hobart continued, “I held him for a long time, until he stopped crying. I think he appreciated it.” Hobart confides in him. “He was sick for a long time, he was so interestig when he was feverish. I think that was what broke him to the point he is now, realizing I was the only person who could love him. Lawson's face remains pinched and drawn. He wanted to punch Hobart in the face but he couldnt risk his carrer or the case like that, so he simply pushed the piece of paper closer to him, waiting for Hobart to sign it.   
…

It is not often that Charlie does something out of the ordinary. But this was certainly out of the ordinary. Late one after noon, when Blake comes in and sits next to him on the couch, Charlie spreads one of his legs out across Blakes. It takes Lucien several moments to figure out what it was Charlie wanted him to do with it. He frowned slightly, and slowly started to rub at the no doubt aching muscles. Charlie gives him no reaction or even a thank you, but Lucien counts it as a sign that Charlie could still trust him, was still in there. Just waiting. Call him an optimist, then. 

The tv is off, Charlie never turns it on and Blake doesn't watch it often so it stays off while they sit. Charlie doesn't change, as if things are the way they usually were. He stares out into distant space, eyes fixed on something that Blake was unable to see. Thinking back to some of the things Hobart has told them, he is not really sure that he wants to know. Charlie allows Blake to continue massaging his leg until Mrs Beazley calls Blake for dinner. He takes Charlie with him, sitting him in the chair next to him. 

The same as was always, Jean serves, and they eat. They chatter. At first, they'd felt awkward about it, talking so casually in front of the silent and still Charlie, but over the last few months, they got used to his presence and things returned to some semblence of 'Normal'. Whatever that was. At some point, Blake tightens Charlie's fingers around his knife and fork, and he eats slowly, as if he is waiting for something to happen. 

Whatever he's waiting for must never happen because he's been like this every night since Blake began insisting that they should include him in whatever they do. He doesnt reply, just eats until there is nothing, then replaces the fork and knife from where they came from. It is unsettling at best. But with the same calm and collected manner he does everything with, Blake, to the outsider, would probably look as though the man sitting next to him being almost a ghost, a shell of a man, was nothing out of the ordinary, even if it seems like it so obviously should be.   
…  
When is Hobart coming back? In the few times Charlie allows himself thoughts, usually when he is alone at night, when anyone who was awake enough to hear his musings, would be asleep. He has been gone for so long. He does not leave the bed this night, deciding that he is willing to pay the punishment for it, should Hobart awaken and find him still here and not away in the cupboard. Every place he's tried to put himself here leads to him being scolded by the new man, and if the new man is anything like Hobart then it will not do for him to continue upsetting him. 

He thinks about Hobart holding him close, like the time he was sick, however long ago that was. Thinks about the smell of his clothes and the way arms felt around him. He likes these thoughts. Most of his other thoughts make him uncomfortable, although he cannot pin point why, but these ones fill him with warmth. He also enjoys the memories of the new man rubbing his legs. 

He knows, logically, that he should not be testing limits like this. He should not be so greedy. He should be grateful for what the man will give him, not try and take for himself. So selfish, he scolds himself, before realizing what he must do. 

It is unusual for him to punish himself, correct, but he also knows that if he does then Hobart will be lenient on him. He leaves the bed where he is not meant to be, and slowly makes his way to the kitchen. He still thinks, more thinking the he has done all week. Hobart must be sated before it becomes worse. He has only just earned the privilege of eating food he does not want the tube again. He has few things he allows himself to take joy in, but eating is one of them. 

He usually cooks for Hobart. Every night, almost, he makes lunch as well. Hobart has told him many times now that it is his most useful skill, aside from sitting pretty. So he takes pride in making Hobart feel pride in him. He does not cook here, althought, in all fairness, he has not attempted to. This happens during the times when he does not like to think, because it simply hurts him too much, and makes Hobart upset. He does not want to upset Hobart. 

He reaches the kitchen, and moves to the stove top. He does not want to punish himself, in fact, he even wonders, just for a second, If perhaps he should not do this. Perhaps he will be fine, but he decides not to take the risk. He holds the match in shaking fingers, and uses it to light the stove, watching the fire burn blue. He looks at the palm of the hand for a moment, before resigning himself to stop thinking again. His hand hovers over the stove, before slowly sinking down onto the open flame. He cannot help himself. He screams. 

…

The house wakes to his screaming. Blake finds himself thrown back to Singapore, while Mattie and Jean make their way to the kitchen to investigate Charlie's yelling. 

It's a bit of a blur to him as he stumbles behind. Despite his initial yell, it seems that Charlie was not talking any more. He doesn't even flinch when Jean holds his burnt palm under the tap. He doesn't flinch at all, not when Mattie slowly cleans the wound under Blake's direction because his hands are still shaking too badly. He does not reply when Blake demands why he would do that. He doesn't even blink Blake has no idea what to do now. The three of them stare at Charlie, as if he would be able to tell them something. 

Eventually, Blake takes Charlie to his room, and puts him to bed. Charlie gives him the blank eyed stare he's become so used to as he joins him under the blankets. He's locked the door to both the closet and the outside so that Charlie would be forced to at least stay in here with him. 

If his hand is hurting him, then Charlie doesn't show it.   
…

Blake goes to the jail the next day, and sits himself across from Hobart, who seems rather pleased with himself for some reason. Blake keeps his face blank. 

“Something the matter, Doctor?” Hobart asks in a slightly pleased tone, “Has Charlie done something?” Blake's face creases slightly and Hobart leans back with a smirk. “What?” Blake doesn't want t let him know that even now he seems to have Charlie in his hold. Hobart leans over the table, putting himself into Blake's view. “Tell me.”  
“He put his hand on the stove to burn it.”  
“Ah.” Hobart smiled, and leant back in his seat. “He's got strength, that one.”  
“Why would he do that?”   
“He used to injure himself sometimes, towards the middle. He'd pinch his skin until his whole side was black and blue. Personally, I thought it was pretty funny. But of course, he couldn’t just go around hurting himself.”  
“What did you do?” Blake asks, almost afraid for Charlie. Hobart settles back in his chair for several long moments, before leaning forward again.   
“I put him in the bathtub, and held him under water until he stopped thrashing.” He replied, “Six times.”  
“Why six?” Blake asks, pretending he's not as disgusted as he is on the inside. No matter how many tortures he sees or remembers it always leaves him sick to his stomach.   
“That was when he passed out.” Hobart shrugged, “Punishment is ineffective if he's not awake to feel it.” Blake keeps his face still, Hobart, as per usual, is more then willing to rattle off some more stories, just to try and get a rise out of Blake. It was the closest thing he had to fun here in his dingy little cell.   
“He cried out a lot for you at first, I'm not even sure he knew he was doing it, but he wanted you to save him so very badly. But you never came. I can even remember the exact moment he realized you werent coming.”Hobart smiled, “Charlie was making me dinner, tube up his nose and two broken fingers, and he looked out the window, just for a moment, just long enough for his whole body to sag slightly.” He glanced at Blake, whose face has gone deathly pale. “And that was when I knew. I knew that he knew he wasnt going home.” He smiled, “I knew that he was finally all the way broken.” Hobart chuckles. “And as punishment for him stopping working, I put his hand in the boiling water he had on the stove, It didnt scar up too bad, which was disappointing.” Hobart chuckles, and leaned back in his seat. As Blake leaves, he calls out “You should bring him to see me, I'm sure I could help you work out some of his kinks and bends.” It takes every ounce of Blake's will power not to go back in there and beat the living shit out of him.   
…  
He still does not know what to do with Charlie. Last night was a very temporary solution given that Charlie crawled into his wardrobe and sat amongst his shoes after they returned to bed. He hadn't wanted to restrict Charlie at all, he'd spend so long being kept within the confines of a cupboard that he never wanted him to feel like that again. For the first time, Blake is beginning to lose hope in Charlie coming back to them. 

Its not as if he will ever stop protecting Charlie, of course. Regardless of how much or how little help Charlie needs, Blake promises himself he will be there but it's hard. It's so hard. He felt like a traitor as he carefully secured Charlie's wrist in the padded cuff. He has no other choice. He attached the cuff to the bed. He can't allow Charlie to wander around any more, because as much as he wants it, it seems like he just cant be trusted which is heart breaking considering what he's just endured. Charlie, for his part, just stares into space and doesn't move or react to the change in situation. Blake comes to bed late. Charlie is still awake. 

…

After he is sure the man is sleeping, Charlie moves his body to look out the window. It was often that Hobart would have him in bed at the same time as he was but Hobart always wanted him out of it before the morning. He does not understand why. He does not understand much these days. Even though it is dark and the curtains are drawn, Charlie can still see between a slight gap in them. He sees stars and grass. He vaugely recalls Hobart promising that he could go outside if he was good enough. He is never good enough, he thinks, watching out the window with sad eyes. He thinks about his wrist, in the cuff. This is the closest he'd come to having a task to preform in a long time. He feels Hobart shift in the bed next to him, and keeps his gaze firmly on space and the distant wonder of freedom. 

He feels guilty, after a few moments. There was no freedom for him now. There never would be, just a life of being passed from man to the next and doing his best to avoid punishment. He wonders if perhaps it were always like this, but his head aches when he tries to recall anything. He supposes it is better this way. For some reason, he find his eyes have begun to leak, even as he tries fitfully to find sleep, to find peace. He eventually registers them as tears. 

…

Charlie is thinking in the middle of the day. He does not know why. Perhaps it is what would register with any other person as bordem. He pulls his knees tight to his chest and puts his head on them, rubbing with his fingers at cramps that are not there but he still feels. He looks out the window, gazing at the green grass of the yard, and flowers that grew in patches of dirt. He would do anything to go out there. He would would do anything regardless, he thinks, he has no choice unless he wants to be punished. He must have done something the previous night to initiate a punishment, that is what being kept in a confined space usually means. And last night he was kept tethered to the bed. 

He thinks about how wonderful it would feel to have the grass between his toes and fingers. To lie in the natural warmth of the sunlight, to feel it on his skin. He has begun to cry again, but it is silent as it ever was. 

…

 

Charlie gets sick and the trial has to be postponed. Its not like he has just a sniffle either, Blake thinks, leaning forward and pressing the cool cloth onto Charlie's warm forehead. Lawson has told him about when Charlie was sick last, and he feels shaky again. Charlie groans softly, but he doesn't know if its because he's in pain or if its because he likes the feeling of the cold flannel. Like most things, Blake decides to go with his gut instinct. 

He does his best to comfort him, holding his hand tightly and occasionally rubbing his tight leg muscles. He doesn't know if Charlie appreciates it or not, and hes struck with the knowledge that he may never know. 

Blake knows that there is nothing beautiful about suffering, knows that there is nothing attractive about the way Charlie's hands clutch at his, trying so hard to find relief from the pain that this fever no doubt entails. He's not an idiot, and hes not Hobart. He knows that Charlie is suffering, and yet its the closest he's been able to get to a reaction of gratitude, of anything, from him since he pulled him from the cupboard. 

He doesn't want Charlie's gratitude. He wants him to come back to them just the way he was before Hobart snatched him away, but he supposes that's never going to happen. Charlie tosses and turns on the bed for a moment, and Lucien replaces the soft cloth on his forehead, attempting to settle him. 

After a while, he has Jean run a cold bath and assist him in moving Charlie to the bath room. Charlie reacts poorly, reaching up out of the water, eyes as empty and unseeing as ever, wet hands clutching at his waist coat, seemingly desperate not to go into the water. Blake will never forgive himself for using force to keep Charlie in the tub. He shuts down again, right back to how he was. At least his temperature is down, Blake comforts himself. 

He also hates himself for playing the thought of Charlie squirming in the bed, sticky and upset over and over in his mind but he doesn't have a comfort for that one.

…  
The trial is not a flashy affair. There is no media present. Patrick is here but Blake puts faith in the main. He will do the right thing. Leading Charlie to sit in the stands, he sighs softly when Charlie sits neatly, hands clasped in his lap. He does not even seem to realize anything has changed. Blake is not sure what he was expecting to happen when Hobart was lead in, but he was not expecting Charlie's eyes to follow him with such closeness. Recently, he'd only seen them blank and void of emotion, but it seemed to be almost relief there when he watched Hobart take his seat. He attempts to stand but Blake doesn't allow it. Hobart turns his head and he looks right at them. Charlie does not fight Blake's hand, and he looks saddened when Hobart looks away. 

Blake feels a slight jealousy in his heart. He'd given so much time to being kind to Charlie, spent so long looking after him, and all Hobart did was hurt him, and yet he remained loyal. He knew why. He knew it wasn't Charlie's fault. He felt so useless, watching Charlie keep his eyes trained on Hobart. He eventually pulls Charlie close to his chest, forcing him to look into his waist coat rather then into the back of Hobart's head. Charlie does not respond.

Hobart pleads guilty. There is no chance of him ever getting out of this, Blake thinks. Charlie watches with wide open eyes when the man talks, he hangs on every word, waiting for a command, or for something to change. Nothing comes of it. 

Charlie is pleased to see Hobart again, he's clearly come back to take him away, to where they had been and where everything would go back to how it was, no strange man and strange rooms. No more self punishment. He wanted it so very badly that he even allows himself to think while he was sitting next to the strange man. He does not listen to the people when they talk, the words do no permeate the fog over his mind. Not even Hobart's voice is able to break though, hes just so ready to go home that when he leaves with the strange man instead of Hobart he does not understand. He keeps trying to pull away from him and seek out the one he was meant to be with, but he is put in the car owned by the strange man. 

Later on, when he is in bed with the strange man, he is upset that he didnt enjoy the time he spent outside.   
…

“Will you dance for me?” Blake asks, mostly, he tells himself, out of morbid curiosity. Charlie blinks once, before standing. Hobart said he would dress him in skirts and frilly dresses but Blake is not interested in humiliating him. He dresses him the way he used to dress. Plain shirts and equally plain pants. He moves in front of Blake, and then begins to sway his hips, moving forward and using his arms in a circular motion around his chest, they push past his chest, up to his neck and over his face. 

His body sways to music Blake is unable to hear, and after six minutes, Blake is so disgusted with himself that he is sick in the bathroom. When he wakes up he sees Charlie looking at him with the same sort of admiration he saw when he looked at Hobart earlier that day. He is sick again. Charlie does not move.   
…

Charlie supposes, late that night, in the room he started in, that it is best to just do what the strange man tells him too. If Hobart ever comes back for him, then he will leave, but it seemed the strange man was now in charge of him, the new Hobart, even. He's asked for him to dance, one of Hobart's favourites. Although the man did not dress him up, which is an interesting change, he thinks. Two women also resided here, it would not be hard to find a dress for him to wear, or even just a skirt. Fine, then, he thinks, this new Hobart will simply have to do. 

He looks out the window at the stars in the sky, and he desperately wants to touch them. 

…

Blake sits on his bed, eyes wet with tears as he thinks about the way Charlie was looking at him. Eyes so warm and full of affection. Like he'd never seen them before. (He thinks of Charlie almost naked and sweaty, hands clutching at the bed sheets, desperate for respite from the unrelenting heat. He thinks of Charlie's swaying hips and the feeling of tight muscle under his fingers) Tears escape. He does not want to be Hobart. He does not want to be Hobart. He thinks that if he thinks it enough times then his traitorous mind will listen.


End file.
